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Oh God.

Just about every morning I go to Einstein Bros Bagels to get a bagel and the elixir of the Gods commonly known as Diet Coke. I then stroll into Starbucks next door, sit down, eat and read.

Also just about every day I pass 1, sometimes 4 people asking me for money. I try to discern whether these people really need my help or are just attempting to get money for another purpose. I have no way of being sure. Admittedly I use a flawed system of simply looking at said person, euphemistically called “hobos” by my young daughters.

Again, this is a flawed method, but one of the hobos has a cell phone, thus she don’t rate in my mind. The others wear different clothes every day, are super clean and have shoes, good decent shoes. I know, I know, describing people that way is lazy and uninformed. I’m describing the regulars to contrast with the guy I call “The Einstein Man.” I call him that because he has wild grey hair reminiscent of Albert.

I see The Einstein Man every once in a while. He is completely and utterly filthy. He has no shoes, only rags tied around his feet. He talks to himself. He never asks for anything. The few times I’ve see him he’s invariably digging through trash cans looking for food. Man. That does rate in my book.

So, a few weeks ago I buy him a bagel, take it outside to where he was laying down and give it to him. He said, “Thanks.” I felt pretty decent. Read more »

Driving down Rockville Pike.

Erin, “Oh, there’s an IHOD.”
Me, “What’s IHOD?”
Erin, “You know, International House Of Diarrhea.”
Me, no reply, still choking.
Erin, “Cuz that’s what I get every time I eat there.”

I was lounging in my fave Starbucks yesterday (I don’t drink coffee, I just like to use their place to read and eat my Einstein Bros. breakfast) when I started to listen as the drink orders poured in. There were a few “coffee of the day” orders, but most were some incomprehensible bullshit that went on forever.

It goes like this: Starbucks employee: “Hey there (dumbass), can I get a (overpriced) drink started for ya?” Rote-memory-cattle-type-person, just prodded awake: “Uh . . . yeah . . . uh . . . CAN I GET* . . . uh . . . (now this person has ordered the same fricking drink for years but we gotta play this I’m kinda undecided game) . . . uh . . . a grande . . . double shot, decaf, double hot, two-pump vanilla, two percent caramel, wave two whole, unwashed beans above my cup, gingerbread, 37 degree to start then steamed to exactly 56 degree soy milk, one rounded not square ice cube, cappuchino, tazo, chai, latte . . . oh . . . and leave room.” Read more »

Remember the old guy in your neighborhood who protected his lawn like a holy shrine? Well, I’m getting close to being that guy, sort of. A while ago I kept noticing a neighbor that would walk his dog down the street each morning stopping at the curb in front of my house. Sure enough, little zippy would assume the hunched position and expel his last meal of kibbles and bits, followed by a drenching yellow rain. Using the plastic bag from his morning paper, the trained owner dutifully picked up the warm excrement.

The daily episode kept grinding on me for two reasons: 1.) My kids and I play out front a lot and our softball/frisbee/toy often lands there. I know the owner picks up the “solids”, but he ain’t cleaning up like a toxic waste worker so my guess is that there is plenty of residue. 2.) Let your damn dog out in your own yard in the morning, let him drop his load there, then walk him. I know, I know, dogs can summon up a whiz or shit on command but isn’t that better than fouling your neighbors lawn? (Hhhmmm . . . maybe he values his lawn more than I, I hadn’t considered that before.) So after the umpteenth time I went out front and “asked” him to not let his dog use my front yard as his personal shit box. Well, it came out a little coarse, cuz the neighbor quickly retorted “I pick it up”. I said I knew that, but that the location of his dog’s daily stool drop is where my kids and I play. I haven’t seen him since. Read more »

The First Year of Pre-School: from Yoptown to Diarrheaville

I was so freaked out taking my son to his first day of pre-school this past fall. The only thing keeping me going was the idea that I only had to look after one child for four hours, three days a week. A small fight over what to wear or what to eat seemed a small price to pay for a little freedom. It took us both a few weeks to adjust. I found it just as scary to leave him at school as it was for him to be left. But after a while, we fell into a routine. He had his sand letters and I had peaceful playgroups and watching Teletubbies with my little girl. Read more »